


by any other name

by the_cirQUE



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 18:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10314452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cirQUE/pseuds/the_cirQUE
Summary: rambling thoughts of a PTSD mind





	

**Author's Note:**

> mind riff that came out of nowhere, means nothing, loops around, has no point or plot really.

Peter learned young, how to hide the softness. Even when he was John, a boy with no parents, no one who cared. Alone against the world. Self-sufficient, death hardened. 

A tendency towards caring. Impractical in foster care, street life, paramilitary training. You’re only going to get hurt, stung repeatedly by reality. 

So he put it away, caged the weakness. Learned to kill and not feel. To bear the nightmares in silence. 

Then he became Quinn. And she broke the cage, unleashed something feral. 

From the start. He would have done anything to protect her. 

Carrie. So hard, yet vulnerable. Indiscriminate, indescribable. 

Crazy smart. Sometimes with a comma, sometimes not. 

All that time not caring. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“You are not there, Peter. Hollow. You don’t know how to care, be cared for.” 

Astrid’s words, from long ago. She knew, couldn’t fix it, never tried. That he would never quit, had no self outside of the group. Didn’t know how to love, was irreparably damaged. 

Peter was broken, empty. A shell. 

Quinn, a live explosive, primed on emotion. 

Astrid saw that too, said as much. 

In Islamabad, after Carrie stood on his bomb. 

He would have killed hundreds. Haqqani, ISI plants, bystanders. Himself too, suicide by ISI. 

“You love her,” she said when he came back, job undone. 

Surprise. Judgment. A touch of jealousy. 

“Go then.” 

He did. Tried hard to stay. 

But doubt. It’s a bastard. Eats its way in. 

Lying to himself, that he can do it. Love. Be loved. 

Just words, not real. Not for him. 

Soulless soldier. Built for death. 

A coward. Forever alone, afraid. 

She named him. Branded him. Broke him. 

Peter was reliable. Likable even. But cold, dead inside. 

Quinn less so. He fucked up, bucked orders. Cared so very fucking much. 

Cared his way onto a one way flight, into a death zone. 

Lost himself in the desert, in the group. The known world. 

But he still wasn’t Peter. Could never be again. 

She’d infiltrated deep, like he swallowed a live grenade.

He was Quinn now. Soft, desperate, vulnerable. She could destroy him anytime, it’s obvious to all. 

Especially now. His hand still shakes, foot drops. He stutters, loses words. Scans every danger, hypersensitive to threat. 

Broken. Fucked up. Ready to be discarded. 

No one has ever cared. Not for John, not for Peter, not for Quinn. 

Part of the territory. A foster life, a shadow dimension. An unknown soldier, forever nameless. Dead, inside and out. 

He liked to believe this. Emotional armour. 

But she made him alive. From moment one. Fucking electric. 

Peter was his own man. 

Quinn? He belongs to her.

So fucking obvious. Pathetic even. 

Goddamned schoolboy, too far gone.

Anything, for her. 

He’s not scared of a bullet, death. Especially not now. 

But this. Her. 

He’s terrified, frozen. Wants exactly what he can’t have. 

Acceptance. Love. 

Impossible. 

John learned early, trust always becomes hurt. Peter understood it just wasn’t for him. 

Quinn? Well, he was born of it. Even though he didn’t know it at the time. 

Yet he still never thought it could come the other way. 

Not with her, who she is. 

He still doesn’t think it, believe it. 

He’s damaged, battered. Angry, afraid. 

He can’t trust this, her. Isn’t enough, isn’t anything anymore. 

He’s not who he remembers. Efficient, capable, sane. That’s gone, forever. 

Useless, pathetic. 

“Quinn?” 

A hand. Warmth, safety. 

“Breathe.” 

He breathes for her. 

Ten count, heart rate slowing. 

That feeling, her hand. Up his spine. 

Tingles, comfort. 

“Everything okay?” 

Panic, always so close. He’s working on it. 

Fear of abandonment, being broken and alone. 

He can almost admit it to himself now. 

He’s so fucking scared. One day he’ll wake up and she’ll be gone. 

“It’s just your head fucking with you again.” 

She’s right, he knows that somewhere. But it’s hard to remember when it’s your own head.

“We’re home. You’re safe, I’m safe, Franny’s safe. No one is going anywhere.” 

Somehow she knows, not that he’s said. The ingredients for panic, his personal recipe. 

He resists but she wins, as always. 

Believes, at least for the moment. 

Anything for you, Carrie. 

Because, despite it all, he’s still Quinn. 

All hidden desperation, absolute need. 

Of her, of this. Warm against him. 

So. 

Quinn may be fragile, volatile, prone to self hate. But he knows how to love, be fierce in it. 

And this, Carrie. So close to a dream he doesn’t want to shatter it. 

She’s real though, right there when he opens his eyes. 

Half concern, half impatience. All Carrie. 

“Sorry.” 

He always is. His head plays games. 

“Don’t be. It’s getting better.” 

He remembers. Let it go, think calm, breathe.

Carrie’s here, she’s not going anywhere. Hard to believe, even now. 

But true, real. 

Everything he ever wanted. Except the brain damage, fucking PTSD. 

Still, he’s Quinn to her. Which is all that matters. 

Because she made him, named him, scarred him. And he will always be hers, was forged by her fire.


End file.
